“Pardon Me.” There is no space for me to move into. “Excuse me.” Someone pushes past, forcing me close to an Orthodox Jewish man with big black hat, beard and dandruff. For a horrific moment I thought our cheeks would touch. His body smells of garlic. He manages to keep reading his book somehow. More people sardine into the carriage. The existing commuters groan about the new commuters, even though they were new themselves six stops back. The Jewish man’s garlic suit is augmented by a new smell of fish. Noses turn up and eyes dart accusingly for the source. Two more stops to go. Someone is pressed tight to my leg. I’m struck by the warmth. For a fraction of a second it’s almost erotic. I realise the chances of it being an attractive woman are remote. I attempt to recoil. There is no space, only other legs to press against. The Jewish man looks up accusingly from his text. My leg is now disturbingly warm. Many years ago at a music festival someone urinated down my leg in a compact crowd like this. I wish to be neither in transit nor at my destination.

Twenty-one minutes later my journey is over. I’m carried by the tide out of the lift and towards the piece of shelf I call my desk. The temperature is kept constant all year round, the air robbed of any odour. I instinctively check my boss’ desk, which is mercifully empty. The floor is bigger than a football pitch. At the far end is a red wall, indicating that this is the red zone. Each floor is divided into four zones. After enough time you don’t need the colour coding to find your way around. An inspirational poster on the wall has the words ‘Cost, Risk, Return’ embossed over a faint trend graph which points upwards. Above it a digital display lets you know the times in San Francisco, Toronto, London, Amsterdam, Tokyo and Sydney.

I often imagine running for that red wall, hurdling the banks of desks, which at waist height would be quite feasible. Three people sit on each side of each bank. They stare at their screen and at the back of the screen in front. I’ve never counted how many banks there are, but it’s more then the number of hurdles in a sprint. On the left of my track is a bank of grey filing cabinets. On the right, ceiling to floor windows are hidden behind blinds (some people suffer from screen glare). I assume a busy frown. A smiling person is not a stressed person is a non-productive person. My desk is bare, this is compulsory. You have to book your desk in advance and be there by a certain time. If you’re late, your phone doesn’t work. To get it working you go on a report. If you’re out sick someone else can use your desk. Slot one out, slot another in. Your space has to be completely depersonalized. They couldn’t have someone else offended by a photo of your baby, girlfriend or hamster.

I mouth “morning” to desk neighbours, sit and login. The red light on my voicemail signals danger. I check voice mail, I check email. I’m too low in our flat organisational structure to get real mail. I feel my soul slipping through the seat of my chair. Systems for which I’m responsible, of which I know little, are malfunctioning. Worse, my boss has responded to the client's complaining emails. I should have been here to do this. I have failed. I leave an impressive display of workful applications on my screen and run for the security of the toilets. I head for the last stall on the right. As a child I’d raced up the stairs to the toilet at home. No monster could reach me when that lock bolt slid across, no Indian’s arrow could pierce my sanctuary. I feel the need to expel the knot in my stomach. I lean forward and squeeze out foul liquefied breakfast. Most middle-aged men would be delighted to have a stomach as flat as mine. The price is the rampant digestion of your own insides. My Dad had the same tendency, “I can shit through a sieve without dirtying it”, he’d declare with pride.

I decided to take the initiative. I should call a meeting with my boss. “Look, I’m doing all I can with the level of knowledge I have on this thing. This has been completely dumped on me.” I begin searching my mind again for any potential solutions to the problem. I still have no clue. “I’m feeling completely at sea, if this is so vital, how come I’ve no support?” I need to have this meeting in a private room. “Listen you sycophantic, clueless, greedy, callous, unfeeling, uncaring, heartless, soulless, dickless fuckwit. I don’t know what series of heinous childhood episodes brought you to this state of existence, and frankly, I don’t care. I just want you to…” I stood and wiped - apparently most people do this while sitting - each to his own. I passed through the cubicle door into the cruel outer world. Forty-six years ago the door was a cervix and today I still feel like screaming. I splashed water on my face. I hadn’t looked at my reflection in days.

Back at my desk I begin an email to my boss to defend and explain myself. Then I see him coming. My peripheral vision recognises the walk and general shape of most of my colleagues. My boss walks slowly, distinguished from Tim ‘the Farmer’ by having his arms glued to his sides. I’m relived to see that the passer by is not mein Fuhrer. It’s the new guy with head too small for body. The two are impossible to tell apart with out looking properly. In the horror movies they give you a fake shock, birds flying out from behind the nervously opened door, then they hit you with the big one. I’m still recovering from the Mr. Small-Head faux scare when the Fuhrer appears like a tall, backcombed ghost. His face looks like he’s just got a bad smell. “Have you had time to read your email?” He looks theatrically as his watch.
“Absolutely, thanks for fielding that one for me. I got delayed….”
“Did you get any word back from Tony?”
“Nothing yet. I think we need to have a talk about this.”
“Okay.” He remains standing, looking down at me.
“Shall we get a meeting room?” He raises eyebrows, does one of his slow blinks. He will wait on me to speak now. “I think there’s various aspects of this we need to..”
“I’ve got a nine thirty and a ten thirty, grab me after that.” And he’s gone. I get a coffee from a vending machine. It costs me twenty pence. They’ll be charging us to take a piss next. Motherfuckers.

I spend my day clutching at straws, searching vainly for solutions. I have no clue what to do. I fear finding the cause of the problem in case it’s my fault. The Fuhrer doesn’t appear at my side again all day. When I try to grab him his Teflon exterior slips through my fingers. He disappears searching for costs to cut, business benefit, synergies.

On the Northern line platform I stand at the point where I know the doors will stop. The digital display says four minutes to go. Tomorrow will be the same. My wife says not to worry. I don’t choose to worry. Anxiety exists in me before my eyes open in the morning. In four minutes, a single step could release me. I could be announced as a delay, ‘a person under train.’ In the old days, before I met Pamela, I sought my escape through drugs. One night I took so much mescaline I believed I was an old woman with pearls and sherry glass, faintly smelling of piss. I think I know what I was escaping from. It can never be outrun. Two minutes. It’s there even when there isn’t a big thing at work. ‘Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed.’ People clump around me waiting for a door to appear. Carrying the worst expectations is almost the same as enduring the worst. One little step. I wish I’d thought of this on the way into work this morning. What I went through today could have been avoided. What do you have to say to me friend, my dear electronic display? “Stand clear - Train now approaching.”